


In-Flight Entertainment

by Magnolia822



Series: The Landed Series [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, M/M, Multi, Public Sex, Romance, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a transatlantic flight, Gwaine has the good fortune to be seated next to two good-looking blokes. They're perfect strangers. Or are they? Written for Kinkspiration Round 5: Role-playing. Gwaine POV. (Arthur/Merlin/voyeur Gwaine)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In-Flight Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

> To AsyaAna and Arcadianmaggie for beta/prereading and to Im_not_a_lizard for the Britpick. Snuggle-humps to you all!

  
  
He’s the last to enter the red-eye from New York to London, and the stewardess throws him a stern look that instantly fades when he flashes her a smile.  
  
“Have a pleasant flight, Sir,” she says, passing Gwaine a pair of headphones and a blanket.  
  
“Cheers.”  
  
He heads toward his seat far in the back of the plane, ignoring the irritated glances of other passengers. There’s a squalling baby halfway down the row, and Gwaine gives thanks to fucking God he doesn’t have to be near it the whole flight. It’s been a long day full of contract negotiations with entitled musicians, and he’s ready for a drink (or two) and a kip.  
  
Two blokes are already sitting in his row when Gwaine arrives. He’s instantly struck by how fit they are, oddly enough in completely opposite ways. A blond man wearing a ratty t-shirt with the name of some band that Gwaine’s never heard of sits in the window seat—an American, for sure. He’s got gorgeous blue eyes and an angular jaw, softened by day-old scruff. The man in the middle seat is a business-class type, at least as indicated by his clothes. He’s more unusual looking than the blond, with prominent cheekbones and a mop of thick, nearly black hair. His expensive shirt is rolled at the sleeves, exhibiting sinewy forearms. Gwaine can hardly believe his luck; he never gets to sit next to hot lads. The next seven hours suddenly look much brighter.  
  
Gwaine gives them both a nod while he hoists his bag into the overhead bin, shutting it before flopping down into his seat. For a moment he has the notion the two are a couple—there’s a noticeable tension between them that Gwaine first identifies as sexual— but overhearing their discussion, he decides that can’t be true.  
  
“This is ridiculous. I booked this ticket months ago,” Cheekbones fumes, more to himself than to the blond man. “There’s absolutely no room back here.” He shifts around uncomfortably, his long legs noticeably scrunched. “Now I have to cross the Atlantic in a middle seat? In coach?”  
  
“Sorry,” says Blondie in an American accent Gwaine can’t quite place. He doesn’t bother disguising his annoyance. “Looks like you’re stuck back in steerage with the rest of us _plebeians._ ”  
  
Cheekbones scowls, fiddles with his mobile. “I need to be able to get online. Bugger it.”  
  
“Hey mate,” Gwaine says, “might as well relax. The flight’s overbooked and you’re lucky you got on at all.”  
  
Blondie nods his agreement and smiles at Gwaine, who grins back. Cheekbones lets out an irritated sigh.  
  
Gwaine decides to introduce himself. He holds out his hand to the blond, who takes it and gives him a firm squeeze. Bloody hell, Gwaine has never seen eyes like those on a man before, or on a woman either. “Merlin,” Blondie says, “Nice to meet you.” His hand lingers in Gwaine’s just a beat too long.  
  
“Good to meet you, Merlin. Now that’s an unusual name.”  
  
“My mother was . . . creative,” he says. “It could have been worse.”  
  
Cheekbones snorts. Gwaine turns his attention to him, determined to play nice. They are stuck with each other, after all, since the flight is full. “And you are?”  
  
“Arthur,” he says, still pecking at his phone. He says it with such an air of authority, Gwaine is sure this Arthur character is used to getting his way. He holds out his hand anyway, and Cheekbones gives him a cursory shake. Merlin and Arthur. Funny coincidence, Gwaine thinks. He’s just about to make a comment when a flight attendant appears, the same one from before.  
  
“Sir,” she says, addressing Cheekbones, “you’ll have to stow your phone for the remainder of the flight.” She’s middle-aged, slim and attractive; Gwaine pities her for having to deal with such arsey blokes, self included.  
  
“Just a moment,” Cheekbones replies.  
  
“Looks like we have our own personal Alec Baldwin,” Blondie—Merlin—says, rolling his eyes. It’s a joke that doesn’t go over well with Cheekbones. He turns off his phone in a huff, then leans back and rubs at his temples as if the entire process is trying. Appeased, the flight attendant moves on.  
  
All three are quiet for a while as the plane taxis and gets ready for lift-off. Once they’ve reached cruising altitude, Merlin puts on his iPod and faces forward, drumming his fingers on the armrest that separates him and Arthur.  
  
“ _Must_ you do that?” Arthur asks.  
  
“What?” Merlin asks, loudly.  
  
Arthur pulls one of the buds out of his ear. “Drumming. Can you please stop?”  
  
“I wasn’t drumming.”  
  
“Yes. You were. You were drumming your fingers to whatever god-awful music it is you’re listening to.”  
  
“For your information, I’m listening to Phoenix, which is quality music. And I wasn’t drumming.”  
  
“You were.”  
  
Merlin grins at him, shrugs, replaces his earbud, and keeps drumming.  
  
It doesn’t really bother Gwaine, but he’s starting to think this Merlin bloke is intentionally trying to piss off Mr. Stick-Up-His-Arse. It’s certainly making the flight entertaining, but he’d like it better if either of them paid more attention to him.  
  
Gwaine flips through the stupid in-flight magazine, wondering if people actually buy the shite for sale, all the while checking out the two men in his peripheral vision. Cheekbones may be an arse, but he’s hot; his fingers are long, elegant as a musician’s. It’s a pity, Gwaine thinks, he seems such a tosser because he’s much more Gwaine’s usual type than Merlin, though he’s sure the blond gets more than his fair share of attention from both sexes.  
  
“So what kind of business are you in?” Gwaine asks Cheekbones, who appears struggling not to have an aneurism at Merlin’s continued antics. Bloke could use a Vicodin, maybe, or a good shag.  
  
“Finance,” he replies in his very posh accent. He doesn’t elaborate.  
  
“Sounds fascinating.”  
  
“It is, actually. What business are you in? Being irritating?”  
  
“Whoa, mate, just trying to make conversation.” Gwaine raises his hands and leans back in his chair.  
  
“No, I’m . . . I’m sorry to be rude. I’ve just had a rather long day.”  
  
“Right, I get that. I get that.”  
  
Blondie perks up from his seat by the window. He’s stowed away his iPod and left off drumming, probably because he’s failed to elicit any further response from Arthur. “So you’re both English,” he says. “Where are you from?” He addresses the question more to Gwaine than Cheekbones, who, with a withering stare cast in Merlin’s direction, makes it clear he isn’t in the mood for conversation. Gwaine gives the blond a flirtatious smile; if he’s lucky, he’ll get a one-off in the lav with this chap before the end of the flight.  
  
“Well, I’m glad at least one of my row mates is sociable,” Gwaine says to him, speaking over Arthur’s head. “I’m Irish, actually, not English.” He casts a pointed look at Arthur. “From just outside of Dublin. Where you headed, Merlin? Staying in London or moving on?”  
  
“I’m staying in London,” he says with the enthusiasm of a first-timer. “For five days.”  
  
“Never been?” Gwaine asks.  
  
“Nope. Never been out of the country, even. I’m from Idaho.”  
  
“Where da ho?”  
  
Blondie laughs. “Idaho. It’s in . . . oh, yeah, well you wouldn’t know it. It’s in the middle of nowhere America. We’re famous for our potatoes.”  
  
“Like the Irish.”  
  
“Just the same,” Merlin says. In between them, Arthur’s brow furrows. He gives Gwaine a displeased look, which Gwaine ignores.  
  
“So, can I ask if you’re going for business or pleasure?” Either way, Gwaine wouldn’t mind meeting up with the blond to get a pint—or perhaps to give him a tour of Gwaine’s bed. The last few weeks he’s been too busy to pick anyone up and he’s horny as hell.  
  
“I’d think it should be obvious.” He glances down at his shirt, shrugs.  
  
“So pleasure it is,” says Gwaine, smiling, and the lift of Merlin’s eyebrow is a good sign indeed. Arthur’s scowl grows deeper. Gwaine is just about to ask whether Arthur wants to switch places with him when the plane lurches. Bloody cock-blocking turbulence.  
  
“Shit,” Merlin says, gripping the arm rests so tightly his hands go white-knuckled.  
  
“Just a little bump, mate,” Gwaine assures him.  
  
“I just . . . I hate flying.”  
  
“You’re more likely to die in a car crash; that’s what they say, anyway,” says Gwaine.  
  
“Yeah. I guess.”  
  
From between them, Cheekbones laughs. “Oh, this is nothing, believe me.”  
  
“I suppose you’re some sort of expert?” Blondie asks.  
  
“As a matter of fact, I am. I’ve been flying at least once a week for the last five years, and I haven’t crashed yet.”  
  
“Clearly you’re on the wrong planes, then,” Blondie replies, grinning.  
  
“Is that supposed to be funny?”  
  
“I’ve been told my sense of humor is unparalleled.”  
  
“Obviously not by those with any discerning taste,” Cheekbones says, crossing his arms.  
  
“God, are all the English as entitled as you?”  
  
“Yes,” Gwaine says, though the other two ignore him; they appear strangely content in their squabble.  
  
“I know not all Americans are as rude as you.”  
  
“Hmm,” says Blondie, “pretty sure you’re the one being rude. But maybe your tiny mind is unable to _discern_ that.”  
  
The bickering goes on, and while Gwaine initially finds it amusing, he quickly loses interest. Thoughts of getting off turn to thoughts of getting pissed, and he hails the attendant for a double vodka tonic.  
  
“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Merlin says, taking a break from the fight. “I’ll have one, too.”  
  
Not to be left out, Arthur nods. “Same for me as well.”  
  
When all three have been served their drinks, things seem to settle down. Gwaine feels himself grow sleepy as the alcohol works its magic. He reclines his seat and closes his eyes, letting himself drift to unconsciousness.  
  
Gwaine is half-dozing when he feels a nudge to his thigh. It’s hours later—all around the cabin people are fast asleep, covered in blankets, propped on uncomfortable airplane pillows. Gwaine makes a move to stretch, but freezes at the sound of rustling fabric audible over the low hum of the flight. He turns his head slowly; for a moment he can’t believe what he’s seeing.  
  
Merlin has his hands in Arthur’s dark hair and Arthur is leaning almost into Merlin’s seat, gripping Merlin’s upper thigh with one hand, his other leveraging Merlin’s shoulder. They’re snogging, eyes closed, completely unaware Gwaine’s awake. It’s an intensely erotic, intimate sight, and for a moment Gwaine contemplates clearing his throat to make his presence known.  
  
He almost doesn’t hear the quiet whisper. “ . . . the blanket. Push over.”  
  
Feeling a bit perverted and a bit entitled, since the two of them are in his bloody row, Gwaine rests his head against the seat and watches with half-lidded eyes as Blondie nips Arthur’s throat, licks at his pronounced Adam’s apple. Arthur’s head falls back, his lashes fluttering as Merlin tongues at his neck, leaving a wet trail that glistens in the low light of the cabin.  
  
Neither of them seems concerned about being found out, and it’s that sense of daring that fuels Gwaine’s own arousal. He’s half hard and growing harder as Arthur runs his hands along Merlin’s broad chest, dipping lower to disappear under the hem of his tee-shirt. Someone moans quietly, and Gwaine hopes to God it wasn’t him. He doesn’t want the show to end.  
  
He doesn’t seem to have to worry. The other men are so caught up in the moment they don’t notice Gwaine shift ever-so-slightly in his own seat, adjusting his erection and giving it a tug.  
  
The kissing goes on, becomes hotter. Arthur’s hands are everywhere, sliding under Merlin’s clothes to feel what is evidently a nicely muscled body. Merlin’s eyes are glazed, his lips swollen.  
  
“I need . . .” Gwaine doesn’t hear the rest of Arthur’s statement because it’s muffled against Merlin’s neck, but the way that the man’s restless hips are shifting makes his meaning clear.  
  
There’s more rustling, blankets are adjusted, and then Arthur’s head lolls to the side as Merlin’s hands slip underneath.  
  
The movement begins; slow, methodical pulls that tent the blanket covering Arthur’s lap. They’re not kissing anymore, just staring at each other, mouths nearly touching, sharing breath. Merlin appears to be using both hands to work Arthur. It’s easy to imagine what it feels like, the warm, full massage, and Gwaine is painfully hard, thankful for the blanket on his own lap. He holds his breath and holds his cock firmly, squeezing, not daring more movement.  
  
Arthur’s eyes close, his face messy with pleasure. His expression is a complete reversal of his earlier, uptight attitude, so much so that Gwaine wonders if it’s even the same person. Merlin suckles on his ear, drawing one hand up to tease Arthur’s nipple through his shirt as his other hand continues stroking, now more quickly. The faster movement dislodges the blanket, and Gwaine can’t believe his luck when he catches sight of the tip of Arthur’s dusky red erection.  
  
Arthur must feel the cool air on his cock. He looks down, and so does Merlin, but instead of covering himself back up, the two men watch as the blanket slips further, unveiling a long, cut prick. Merlin circles the tip with his thumb, smearing the wetness and making Arthur’s hips jerk upwards. The movement continues, slow passes over the slit, dragging over the sensitive ridge of the head, and then tracing back. Blondie reaches down to fondle Arthur’s balls, parting his thighs as the blanket falls to the floor. This new development gives Gwaine an unobstructed view of the cock jutting from a dark thatch of curls. Arthur’s trousers are fully opened and nearly half way off his hips. _Christ,_ Gwaine can smell his arousal, the musky scent of sex.  
  
Arthur is nearly fucking into Merlin’s hand now, mouth parted, making needy sounds that Gwaine worries might actually wake the people around them. Merlin silences him by sticking a finger in-between those full lips, lets Arthur suckle it like a cock.  
  
It’s a strangely affectionate gesture; even in his lust-muddled brain Gwaine can’t reconcile it with their earlier behavior. But he doesn’t muse long. His own prick is begging for attention, and so Gwaine squeezes and squeezes, too far gone to care if he’s caught. It won’t take much to set him off. He’s already close to blowing his load.  
  
Cheekbones grunts softly, biting the finger in his mouth, licking at it obscenely. Those lips were made for sucking, Gwaine thinks, for sucking cock and being sucked on. For a minute he even imagines what would happen if he leaned over to join in.  
  
He can’t be sure what, but Merlin whispers something in Arthur’s ear; from the way that Arthur’s face contorts, it’s something utterly filthy and delicious. It sets Gwaine off.  
  
Gwaine can see Blondie’s hand grow wet as the prick in his hand starts to jerk. He quickly removes his finger from Arthur’s mouth to cup the tip of his cock, working him though his orgasm with one hand and collecting his come with the other.  
  
The smell has Gwaine feeling faint. His balls tighten as he concentrates on rubbing the head of his cock through his jeans, for some reason wanting to prolong it, edging himself to what he’s sure will be a spectacular orgasm. He’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven when Merlin releases Arthur’s softening prick, brings his hand to his mouth to lick it clean. Arthur seems to approve. He smiles sleepily and leans forward to kiss Merlin, surely tasting his own come.  
  
“. . . close,” says Merlin, guiding Arthur’s hand to his own lap. “Suck it?”  
  
Gwaine closes his eyes just as he senses Arthur start to turn. He stops moving, feigns sleep.  
  
When a wet, sloppy sound reaches his ears, he chances one more look. Arthur is hunched over Merlin’s lap, the hands in his hair guiding his head up and down in quick, shuddering movements. Gwaine can’t see much, but the look on Merlin’s face makes it clear that Arthur knows how to suck dick, just as he suspected. Instead of feeling jealous, Gwaine moves his hand again, squeezing his cockhead, now hard and filled to bursting. He’s so close, so close . . . He milks himself through his jeans, feeling it build.  
  
Merlin makes a surprised sound, and Gwaine can’t help it, he looks up and meets Merlin’s gaze, eyes blown wide with shock and lust. The man is obviously coming. He has Arthur’s head latched to his lap, moving his hips as he rides it out balls deep in Arthur’s throat. That’s all it takes for Gwaine. He explodes silently, eyes rolling back in his head as he imagines being inside that hot slick sheath.  
  
They don’t speak for the rest of the flight; when Gwaine disembarks, he makes hasty retreat to the toilets, thankful he has a change of pants in his carry-on, feeling dirty but not very regretful.  
  
He’s just about cleaned himself up in a stall when he hears the familiar voices of two men outside the door. He pauses and listens, confused.  
  
“I do NOT sound like that,” says one, but the cadence is wrong—the accent.  
  
“You do.”  
  
“I wasn’t _that_ rude when we first met.”  
  
“You were even worse,” says the other voice—and it’s different, too. He’s sure it’s Cheekbones talking, but his posh English accent is gone, replaced by a lilting American one. “You just don’t remember. God, I thought you were such a douche.”  
  
“ _Mer_ lin,” says the bloke who Gwaine is equally sure is Blondie. But it can’t be—he was an American, and now he’s speaking as a posh Englishman. What the—  
  
“Was it as hot as you thought it would be?” asks Arthur, or rather, Merlin. God, Gwaine’s head is spinning. He definitely needs more sleep.  
  
“It was amazing. Thank you for, you know—”  
  
“For indulging your kinky fantasy?”  
  
“Yeah, that.” Silence for a moment. “Did you like it?”  
  
“It was different . . . it was fun. I did, yeah. Although your interpretation of me is a little off.” Merlin laughs.  
  
“I’m spot on.”  
  
“Your accent is _not_.”  
  
“You know that bloke, Gwaine. He saw us,” says the one Gwaine now understands as Arthur.  
  
“Oh my god!”  
  
“Yeah. He saw you . . .you know.”  
  
“Fuck. I thought he was asleep.”  
  
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I think he liked it.”  
  
“You were flirting with him.” There’s displeasure in Merlin’s voice that makes Gwaine’s blood heat.  
  
“Only because I know it gets you hot.”  
  
“ _He_ was hot,” agrees Merlin. “I wouldn’t mind inviting him back to ours, you know, as long as I get to keep you in the end.”  
  
“Really?” Arthur sounds more than a little interested. “I think I love you, Merlin Emrys.”  
  
“You’re just realizing that now?”  
  
Inside the stall, Gwaine grins.


End file.
